


i want your laughter like the flower i was waiting for

by hihoplastic



Series: STV Tumblr Prompts/Reposts [4]
Category: Star Trek: Voyager
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-16
Updated: 2015-09-16
Packaged: 2018-04-21 03:52:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4813937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hihoplastic/pseuds/hihoplastic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In retrospect, the park in the middle of a Sunday afternoon probably wasn't the best place to meditate. There are dogs and children and people jogging and picnics and yoga and he can't concentrate enough to break through the noise. Background he's good at diminishing - distant chatter and the squeak of swing hinges he can put out of his mind, but there's a woman on a bench not ten yards away who keeps laughing to herself, a throaty sound that cuts through his thoughts every few minutes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	i want your laughter like the flower i was waiting for

**Author's Note:**

> \- for @forbajor, from the tumblr prompt, _i'm walking through the park trying to find silence and solitude and here you are on this bench laughing hysterically and you have been for five straight minutes and it turns out you're laughing at some book you're reading you adorable nerd" au_  
>  \- Title and excerpt from _Your Laughter,_ by Pablo Neruda  
>  \- Science quote from _The Hidden Reality: Parallel Universes and the Deep Laws of the Cosmos_ by Brian Greene (sorry Brian)

_My struggle is harsh and I come back  
with eyes tired  
at times from having seen  
the unchanging earth,  
but when your laughter enters  
it rises to the sky seeking me  
and it opens for me all  
the doors of life._  
\- Pablo Neruda

*

In retrospect, the park in the middle of a Sunday afternoon probably wasn't the best place to meditate. There are dogs and children and people jogging and picnics and yoga and he can't concentrate enough to break through the noise. Background he's good at diminishing - distant chatter and the squeak of swing hinges he can put out of his mind, but there's a woman on a bench not ten yards away who keeps laughing to herself, a throaty sound that cuts through his thoughts every few minutes. 

Part of him is frustrated - he'd come here for solace and guidance and a little inner peace; but he's also intrigued, by the hand she keeps clapping over her mouth as if she knows she's disturbing someone, the timber of her laugh. She has as much a right to the space as he does, and it seems she's found a better use for it than brooding. 

He can only see her profile, half hidden by long hair, but he likes the way she's brought a blanket, tucked her feet up on the bench. The way she licks her fingers to turn the pages. The way she's reading a book, not a PADD.

She laughs again, a sound that ends on an undignified snort, and Chakotay drops his head to hide a smile.

Folding up his medicine bundle - he won't get anywhere with this many distractions - he tries to think of something to say - _What's so funny?_ sounds like she's bothering him - which she is - but he doesn't care that much. _What are you reading?_ is idiotic, _Good book?_ is even worse. _You're beautiful when you smile_ is creepy, and _Mind if I sit down?_ is intrusive. 

Still, he moves slowly, hoping to come up with something by the time he reaches her. He's a few steps from the bench, hesitating, when she laughs again, then bites her lip and, for some inexplicable reason, looks up. 

He's staring, he knows he's staring, and he flushes, prepared to apologize when she beats him to it. 

"Sorry. 20th century physics," she says, as if that explains everything.

"I didn't know Einstein was funny," he manages, but just barely. She's beautiful - fair skinned and blue eyed but it's her smile that gets him, bright and warm and he wonders if she has a malicious bone in her body. 

"He is," she says, "but it's the theories - the speed of light as a cosmic barrier, the Schwartzchild radius, big G." She shakes her head, flipping through the pages. " 'If there is a lot of matter,'" she reads, in what he assumes is supposed to be a pompous British accent, "gravity will cause space to curve back on itself, yielding the spherical shape. If there is little matter, space is free to flare outward in the Pringles shape. And if there is just the right amount of matter, space will have zero curvature.'"

Chakotay smirks. "Pringles?"

"I know," she says, "isn't it..."

He expects her to say, hilarious, or adorable, or ridiculous. Instead, she clutches the book to her chest for a moment.

"Delightful?" 

He chuckles. "I suppose it is."

"I'm sorry if I bothered you," she says. "I should probably save the mocking for indoors, but it was such a nice day."

"It's a regulated atmosphere, it's always a nice day."

"Not in Indiana."

He arches an eyebrow. "You came all the way to New York to read a book?"

"It's Central Park," she says, a bit defensively, lips in a slight pout but he’s sure it’s for show.

"If you like this you should see the parks on Dorvan."

Apparently that was the right thing to say - her eyes brighten, full of curiosity that she tries to tamper with the slight tilts of her head and a polite, “Are you from there? I’ve heard it’s beautiful.”

He nods. “I am, and it is. At least, it used to be.”

“Used to be?”

Chakotay arches an eyebrow. “The war?”

She immediately looks away, guilty, and anger flares in his stomach. She’d forgotten, like most everyone on Earth, safe in their own little bubble away from the fighting and the bloodshed. 

“It’s faded from the news lately and sometimes I…” She shakes her head. “It’s no excuse.”

“No, it isn’t.” He doesn’t mean to snap, but instead of flinching or biting back, she nods and meets his gaze. 

“No,” she agrees, “it isn’t. Are you--” She stops, shakes her head. “Is your family all right?”

“That’s a bit personal, isn’t it?”

He doesn’t know why he’s so defensive, almost antagonistic, but the stricken expression on her face makes him feel horrible. 

“You’re right,” she says, “I’m sorry.” Rising, she folds up her blanket and tucks her book under her arm, her eyes shadowed. Offering him an apologetic smile, she moves to leave, and Chakotay kicks himself. 

“Wait. I’m sorry,” he says when she turns back. “You were just trying to be nice.”

“Nice isn’t always helpful.”

“No, but that doesn’t make it wrong either. I’m just…” he trails off, shaking his head. “I feel like I ruined your nice day,” he admits, and, with a quick, deep breath, “Can I buy you coffee to make up for it?” 

She stares at him for a moment, surprised, then her lips settle into a small smile. “You said the magic word.”

“Sorry?”

She shakes her head. “Coffee. But I’m buying.”

“You don’t have to--” At her glare, he stops protesting. “Fine. Do I get a name to go with my coffee?” 

She laughs, settling in along side him as they head toward the reservoir, and tells him her name is Kathryn, that she’s with Starfleet, that she thought about a command track but loved science too much to give it up. They stop at a cart, a replica made to look like the ones from the 20th century, and she buys them both a cup of coffee and a pretzel to share. Instead of sitting, they wander, meandering down the path and he tells her about Dorvan and its wildlife preserves, its parks, the woods near his home. He tells her about the war, she tells him what she’s heard. They talk about books and music and art and it seems whatever he brings up, she has an opinion on it - from protecting native ecosystems to replicator rations, she’s able to speak about almost everything, and what she can’t she actually listens to him, asks questions. She isn’t so pompous that she won’t admit when she doesn’t understand, but she’s also ridiculously clever and quick and compassionate, he finds, watching her toss a ball back to a group of kids on the lawn. What he at first thought was naivety and carelessness, he finds is actually just hope. She understands the state of the Federation, understands laws and power dynamics and age old hatreds, but she believes so strongly that things can be _better_ , that people are _good_ ; she believes in the power of exploration and cultural exchange and second chances, and while he doesn’t quite agree on everything - he’s too jaded for that - he finds he loves listening to her. That she calms him. That her enthusiasm and hope are infectious. 

When they reach the fountain, Kathryn beams, tosses her empty mug in a recycler, and grabs his hand. “This is my favorite place in the whole park,” she says, tugging him gently toward the statue. “It’s the original, one of the only statues in the park that hasn’t been replaced or upgraded. She’s been here since 1873, and was designed by a woman named Emma Stebbins, the first woman to receive a commission for a major work of art from the state of New York.”

Chakotay laughs, too busy looking at her to look at the statue. “You know a lot about her.”

When she meets his gaze, her cheeks flush and she ducks her head before looking back out over the water. “I used to come here as a kid. My father was an Admiral, and whenever he’d travel here for business I’d make him bring me by to say hello.”

“Are you religious?” 

She shakes her head. “No, not unless quantum mechanics counts. There was always just something about her…” Her smile fades to something melancholy, and she doesn’t look at him when she says, “I haven’t been here since he died. I come to the park all the time, but here…” 

He squeezes her hand instinctively, and she starts, as if she’d forgotten. 

“Thank you for bringing me here,” he says softly. 

“To be honest, I’m not sure why I did.”

“Maybe we could figure it out over dinner?” 

She laughs. “Are you always this subtle?”

Chakotay ducks his head and scratches the back of his neck. “Pretty much. Was that a yes?”

“Okay,” she says. 

“Perfect. I know this great little Italian place--”

“Now?”

“Why not?” he grins, tucking her arm in his. “It’s a nice day.”


End file.
